This madman talked a strange mixture of sanity and nonsense; and he reacted to Hornblower’s heavyhanded humour quite convincingly. The heavy eyelids raised themselves a trifle, and the cold grey eyes searched Hornblower’s.

“You speak truth, my lord, without, I fear, giving it its full weight. My business is of the greatest importance. Not only does the fate of France hinge upon my arrival in Paris, but the future history of the world—the whole destiny of mankind!”

“The name of Bonaparte implies nothing less, Your Highness,” said Hornblower.

“Europe is falling into anarchy. She is a prey to traitors, selfseekers, ideologues, demagogues, of uncounted fools, and of knaves without number. France under strong guidance again can give order back to the world.”

“Your Highness says no more than the truth.”

“Then you will appreciate the urgency of my business, my lord. The elections are about to be held in Paris, and I must be there—I must be there within fortyeight hours. That is the reason why I waded through mud under a deluge of rain to your house.”

The stranger looked down at his muddaubed clothes and at the trickles of water draining from them.

“I could find your Highness a change of clothing,” suggested Hornblower.

“No time for that, even, thank you, my lord. Farther down the railway line, beyond this unfortunate landslide, and beyond the tunnel—I think at a place called Maidstone—I can catch another train which will take me to Dover. From thence the steam packet to Calais—the train to Paris—and my destiny!”

“So Your Highness wishes to be driven to Maidstone?”

“Yes, my lord.”

It was eight miles of fairly easy road—not an impossibly extravagant request from a stranger in distress. But the wind was southwesterly—Hornblower pulled himself up with a jerk. These steam packets paid no attention to wind or tide, although it was hard for a man who had all his life commanded sailing vessels to remember it.